Concidental Bullets
by YourShadowhunterBitch
Summary: Why is this golden savior bring back those awful memories? Can Clary keep up with all these similarities and scary truths appearing? Heavy Clace. AU and a tinsy bit OOC. Clary's a spitfire, watch out.


**As I talked about in my last songfic, I have a bigger plot line coming and… TADA! I'm publishing it! Yay for me and you! This is a Clace fic, and well some… Unwilling Clebastian. Sorry. Not sorry. It wil be from CLARYS point of view. This shall be an M rated story for sexy times *wink wink* mass murder, and some rapey sort of shit. Oh! And don't forget for swearing! I should really fix my mouth, but no one seems to really care. Okay, back on track for the disclaimer *cries***

**Disclaimer: **_**I do not own any of the characters from The Mortal Instruments, those belong to the magnificent Cassandra Clare. I do however, have right to this story line according to fanfiction. I also do not own Flatbush Gardens, not that I would want to. **_

When most people hear a gunshot nearby them, they instinctually drop to the floor, right? Well, apparently not this bitch. When I heard it ring through the park, I had been paralyzed in fear.

_No, no, no. Not again. I've heard this all before. Not again, not again. _

I began to run when I realized it would do me no good to stand and weep. It took me a moment to realize that the shots were following me. _Are they trying to shoot me? _The shots were all low, as if the gunman was only trying to stop my movement. I assumed he was only trying to stop me before I could stop the assault. Finally, one caught me in the calf: just below the knee. Before I could hit the ground, a strong figure slammed into me stopping my fall.

"Don't make a sound or squirm. Got it?" a deep, masculine voice commanded.

Instead of replying, I only obeyed and hoped that he was my savior and not my captor. I inhaled the smell of him, seeming how my face was smashed into his chest. He smelled like sunlight-if there was such a thing-and cologne, with a bit of sweat, but not in a bad way. He smelled safe and felt strong as he held me. Although, he had his hand smack dab on my ass. I had no idea if it was accidental or not.

He continued to run, me bouncing in his arms. The gunshots continued, until he rounded a sharp corner, eluding us of the criminal. He put me down and I saw that he had gone through a narrow alleyway, and up the fire escape of an apartment complex. Then, I noticed _him_. He was tall and masculine, yet still lean. He had golden eyes that were made of liquid gold, and curly hair to match. He was wearing a black shirt and leather jacket.

"You can stop staring, I know I'm beautiful." He said with a smirk.

My mouth open and my eyebrows bunched together, surprised at his level of asshole in this situation. I began to step towards him to tell him off, but crumpled to the ground. My leg could take no pressure, and by now was bleeding quite a bit.

"Shit," He muttered, "We have to get you to a hospital."

_Ohhhh noooo he doesn't._

Being the total dipshit I am I flipped, "No! Please don't make me go there!" he looked at me weird, "You can drop me off at my apartment and I can get it out myself. Uh… I'm trained in first-I mean-bullet wound aid and assistance." I lied with the ease of, actually not ease. Constipation is the word.

Something about me must have shown him I was really afraid, so he said, "Okay, nurse…" he stuttered.

"Clary." I finished.

"Okay, nurse Clary. I'll take you home."

We cautiously walked back to his car. Well _he _walked cautiously to his car with me in his arms. The car had numerous bullets jammed into the windows and doors of the car. Its black paint scratched off in places. He opened the passenger side and placed me on the seat that was so nicely cushioned with bullet casings. He slammed my door shut and got in the driver's seat. His car revved up and he took off.

"What street?" He asked.

"1403 New York Avenue. Flatbush Gardens." I stated.

"You live in _that_ shithole?" He looked astounded that I couldn't afford rent anywhere else.

"Despite it being a shithole it's my shithole and all I could afford." I said blandly without taking my eyes off the road in front of us. "Besides, I've already made peace with the bedbugs."

**(AN: I researched for a shitty New York Apartment and factoid Flatbush Gardens is real and **_**does**_** have bed bugs)**

He chuckled at my follow up statement.

"Besides," I said, "I don't even know your name, so what gives you the right to look down on me and insult me?"

"Jace." He said shortly.

"What?" I asked.

"My name," he explained, "Is Jace. Short for Jonathan Christopher Herondale."

My breath caught. _Jonathan Christopher Morgenstern. _I pursed my lips and looked away.

_Flashback_

_I heard the first gunshot. It was loud and whizzed right by my head. I felt Father pick me up, leaving his study. _

"_Jocelyn!" I heard him scream, "Get Jonathan and meet me in the black room!"_

"_But, Valen-" the gun went off again and Mothers voice was cut off by her scream. _

_I saw my older brother Jonathan run through the hallway towards us. He had blood splattered on his pants and was sobbing. _

"_Come quickly my boy!" Father yelled._

_Jonathan took a leap as a bullet went right through his skull, the blood and brain matter splattered against the forest scene my now dead mother had painted when we first bought the town house. He smashed to the ground shattering his skull, making it all flat and lopsided. His white hair was now the same color as mine, but drippy and shiny. One of his green eyes had even popped out of his head, rolling out of its socket._

_Father ran with me in his arms. We went to a secret safe room that locked from the inside like a reverse vault. We stayed in there for what seemed like days, but was simply hours. _

_Flashback over_

Jon had been nine years old when he died, I had been five.

My father was dead as well now, though he didn't die by a bullet to the head like my mother and brother had. It was the pancreatic cancer that got that old bastard. He died about three years ago, right after my college graduation.

Jace looked at me, "Are you okay? You looked pained. Is your wound okay?" He looked truly concerned.

"Well, no. My wound is most definitely _not okay._ But, the expression is from not from physical pain, but painful memories."

"Brought up by what?"

"This situation. Your name."

He cocked eyebrow, asking for more information. I just looked away, telling him he wasn't getting it.

"Well, Red And Mysterious, we're here." He chuckled.

"Red And Mysterious? Really?" I questioned.

He got out of his seat and picked me bridal style. We walked through the lobby past a police officer and the manager quietly conversing. They didn't pay us the least bit of attention. That was good with me though, then they wouldn't ask about the blood all over the both of us. Jace walked up the stairs to my apartment room. He went to turn the handle, but it fell off the door. That's when I realized why the police officer and manager had been so feverish and hush hush. Someone had ripped my apartment to shreds

"_Shit_." I muttered.


End file.
